


Sugar in the Fuel Lines

by Feyland



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-13 22:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: Montsous Week 2019Relevant TWs at the beginning of each chapter





	1. Day 1 - First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for tiny reference to underaged sex/sex work

The man’s coat was open, fanned out behind him as he walked. Perfect, Montparnasse thought. His pockets didn’t even touch his body - he wouldn’t feel a thing. Matching the man’s gait, Montparnasse casually fell in behind him. A gust of wind sent the coat even further away from its owner, a clear sign to Montparnasse that the universe wanted him to have the contents of the pockets. Fast fingers moved in and out of the folds of black wool in seconds, and Montparnasse felt a burst of adrenaline in his chest at the familiar feel of a leather wallet. He fell back from the mark’s heels, and was about to slip the prize away when he noticed something that froze the smug smile on his face.

The wallet was his.

Well. Most recently his. It had initially belonged to a young man with a disappointingly small amount of cash. The wallet itself, though, was expensive-looking, and the initials MP were similar enough to Montparnasse’s name that he had decided to keep it. 

How he had managed to steal the same wallet twice was a mystery, though. He stood there on the sidewalk, openly gawking before shooting his gaze down the street towards the mark. The man had stopped a few meters away, watching Montparnasse through dark sunglasses. Instinct told Montparnasse to bolt now that he had been caught (strangely) red-handed. He didn’t though, and instead stood dumbfounded as the man began to take slow, measured steps towards him.

Curiosity got the better of him.

“How did you do that?” he demanded.

The man’s stoic expression cracked into a smile. “Your casing isn’t subtle,” he said, his voice low and smooth. 

Montparnasse opened his mouth to protest, and immediately shut it again. He wasn’t stupid enough to admit to anything to this stranger. Yet. 

“Your focus was on the street,” the man continued. “You didn’t have any awareness of yourself. Easy.”

“Are you a cop?” Montparnasse said suspiciously.

The stranger’s smile widened. “You know a lot of pickpocketing cops?”

Montparnasse just glared at him.

“How old are you,” the man asked him instead.

“Eighteen,” Montparnasse lied. 

The stranger raised an eyebrow, and Montparnasse recognized that the man probably had a pretty strong bullshit detector. 

“Not bad, for a kid,” the man said. “I didn’t feel anything. I only noticed that you had stopped following me. That’s a rookie mistake, though. And I was making it pretty easy for you.”

“Oh fuck off,” Montparnasse bit out. He certainly didn’t need some creep telling him how to do his own shit. Or if he did, he would be the one to ask for it.

He swallowed his pride.

“Would you- Can you show me how you do it?” he asked, feeling stupid and young. But the other feeling in his gut was hunger - a desire to sit next to the physical version that was a constant companion. 

“Tell you what, kid. I need something from you first. Lesson number 1: you’re going to have to make some sacrifices.”

Montparnasse’s posture changed instantly, going on the defensive as he watched the man through narrowed eyes. “What do you want?” he asked, full of distrust. He’d had many older men say the same thing to him before.

The man regarded him. “I want your name,” he said, and held out his black-gloved hand. “Mine’s Claquesous,” he said, and waited.

Montparnasse took it. “Montparnasse,” he said.

“Pleasure.” 


	2. Day 2 - Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for vampires & suggestive blood drinking

“You sure you’re not hungry?” Montparnasse purred from the bed. He stretched, elongating his pale neck, and ran his hand through his hair as though he could shake out enough of his scent to draw Claquesous back to him. Claquesous didn’t look up from his letter, though. He had been meaning to write to an old friend for several years now. Mardisoir was old enough to that a distraction like Montparnasse wouldn’t even register in their concept of time, but Claquesous was happy to use the correspondence as an excuse to make Montparnasse squirm. 

“Too much feeding isn’t good for you,” Claquesous reminded him in a frustratingly calm voice. “Or for my self-control.”

“Self-control is overrated,” complained Montparnasse, tossing himself onto his stomach, letting the sheets drape off of him suggestively. “The high is so much better when you let go.” 

“The comedown is worse,” Claquesous said. He liked the feeling - something like warmth - that he got when he drank just enough. He liked the way the afterglow looked on Montparnasse, his pupils blown wide and his hazy, satisfied reactions, slowed by euphoric venom. He didn’t like what happened when he went too far. The shuddering that rocked Montparnasse’s body even after the ecstasy faded. Montparnasse’s skin turned clammy as Claquesous felt drunk in overconsumption. Even when his mouth watered at the very sound of Montparnasse’s voice, Claquesous made sure to give them both the time they needed to recover.

“You know, this wouldn’t be a problem if you just turned me already,” Montparnasse prodded. 

“Ten more months,” Claquesous replied. They had a deal. Montparnasse was rash, and so young. Claquesous had insisted they give it time. Three years of trial, of trying to live like a vampire. Montparnasse, it seemed, was certainly ready to give up the human world. Perhaps it was simple greed that gave Claquesous pause. He would miss the warmth of Montparnasse’s body, the wild, fragile pulse under his thumb. He would miss the heat of his blood, and the wicked combination of power, lust, and protectiveness that came with feeding on him. 

Claquesous swallowed. It was getting harder to ignore Montparnasse on the bed behind him.

“You’re going to have to learn more patience if you’re going to be immortal,” he said. 

Montparnasse huffed, watching Claquesous. “I guess you need patience in order to write like that. No one uses quills anymore. They’re so old-fashioned.”

“I am old-fashioned.”

“You’re just old.”

Claquesous could smell Montparnasse’s hair, the light layer of sweat still coating his skin, the hint of wine grapes on his breath. He could smell the metallic aura of the living, human body. He capped his ink.

Claquesous had found over several centuries that there was rarely a reason to move quickly. He had all the time in the world; there was no rush. He knew Montparnasse was no expecting it, then, when chose to break that rule of his. He was across the room before the mortal could blink, dragging him up on his knees while one hand rested lightly on Montparnasse’s throat. 

“I knew you were still hungry,” Montparnasse gasped, letting out a breathy laugh.

It turned to a moan quickly as Claquesous sank his teeth into his neck. Claquesous would always be hungry for Montparnasse. 


	3. Day 3 - Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for mild sexual content and blindfolds.

Montparnasse exhaled, the hint of a whine escaping with the breath. Claquesous was taking his time making his way down Montparnasse’s body, sucking slow bruises onto the skin. Montparnasse cracked his eyes open to follow Sous’s movements, and immediately regretted it. No matter how many times he saw them, he would never get used to those damn masks. The entire wall behind Claquesous was filled with them, displayed like a horrible museum. Some even hung behind glass, lovingly preserved by their owner. 

Montparnasse hated them. Not when they were on Claquesous’s face, of course. There, they looked like they belonged, with a pair of eyes behind them. But the empty sockets seemed to watch him with a cold pressure he didn’t fancy. Especially when coupled with the direction the evening was headed.

“Stop,” he groaned.

Claquesous did, rolling off of him immediately, and met Montparnasse’s gaze, his face carefully blank. Montparnasse knew him well enough, though, to see the hint of apprehension behind that particular facade. 

“It’s your fucking masks,” Montparnasse huffed, annoyed at the need for the interruption. “They’re staring at me and creeping me the fuck out.”

Claquesous’s blankness faded into a smirk. “I would have guessed you would enjoy an audience.” 

Montparnasse tried to avoid looking at the faces on the wall. “People are one thing. But I don’t fuck with being watched by dolls, clowns, taxidermy, or masks, apparently”

“Literally.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“That was the idea. We could always go to your place.”

Montparnasse sighed. “It’s so far. And it’s cold out.” He expected more teasing for that, but Claquesous looked thoughtful before rising from the bed. “Where are you going?” Montparnasse demanded, lifting himself up on one elbow to get a better view of Claquesous as he crossed the room. Claquesous said nothing, and Montparnasse could feel the smugness that was present whenever Sous would wind him up. He collapsed back against the pillows with an annoyed huff, shutting his eyes again. 

He felt the mattress shift on his left, and found Claquesous kneeling beside him with something in hand. 

“This should help,” Claquesous said, and Montparnasse shivered at the tone. Claquesous held a half-mask, the bottom cut to leave the nose and mouth uncovered. The material seemed to be a soft, well-oiled black leather. There were no eye holes. 

Montparnasse opened his mouth to say something - of course Claquesous’s solution for a mask problem was more masks. But it didn’t come out. He wanted to feel the leather against his skin, placed by Sous’s hand.

“Sit up,” Sous said. Montparnasse obeyed. His lips were still parted and he sucked in a breath as the mask went over his eyes, cutting off any trace of light. Claquesous deftly knotted the ties, shifting them so they fit comfortable in the nape of his neck, and then pushed Montparnasse back down. Montparnasse exhaled, waiting for Claquesous to continue where he left off. But a few long seconds passed with nothing, and he was about to complain again when a finger dragged down his neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Before he could register, another hand caressed his stomach, coming to hold on to one hip. A thumb over a collar bone. A tight grip on a wrist. Claquesous toyed with him, painting layers of sensation across Montparnasse.

“You look good in a mask,” Claquesous said into his right ear, before raking his teeth along the shell. 

“Sous-” Montparnasse managed. “Please.”

When Claquesous obliged, Montparnasse did not see it coming. 


	4. Day 4 - Secrets

It would soon be time to go, Claquesous knew. The whispers had started again, telling him to move on. New place, new face, new name - again. He had done it over and over, shedding off the worn coat of whatever identity he had picked up along the way, changing it in for something new, not yet blemished. 

 

Trouble had caught up with him. Patron-Minette was laying low, waiting for the storm to pass. Claquesous had always felt more at home in the storm. When the rains would finally end, his companions would find him washed away without a scent to trace. It would be easy.

 

It should have been easy. 

 

He planned his path in his head, sending himself away, only for some current to turn him around, leading back to a doorstep. The door always opened for him, and he knew where to step to avoid the creaking floor beyond the threshold. He did not need to count steps down the hallway; muscle memory took control of that. The bedroom would always hurt to look at, the walls in his mind’s eye too pale compared to the black furnishings. Too much like the man he could see on the bed, all dark features and milky skin. Too much temptation to mar it beautifully. Paint splashes of red across the stark walls, be there to stitch them up again.

 

He forced himself back, letting the doorway close in his mind. 

 

One day he would go. Soon. But not yet. 


	5. Day 5 - Nyctophilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - canon character death

Montparnasse made sure he only visited at night. Claquesous had always thrived in the dark; it seemed an insult to his memory to abandon that now, even as he lay in cool, black earth. Montparnasse did not believe in spirits, but somehow Claquesous felt closer once the sun had gone, even if his ghost was as dark and still as his tombstone. 

Montparnasse perched on it, careful to avoid dirtying his trousers. The stone was still new, freshly added to the gravesite, nearly two months after its inhabitant had be laid to rest. The granite slab bore the name under which Claquesous had died: Le Cabuc. Montparnasse despised it. Whatever reason Claquesous had for taking up arms behind the ill-fated barricade, he had been playing a part, and now would be memorialized in costume. Had Montparnasse not seen the body with his own eyes, he might have believed Le Cabuc had died so that Claquesous could slip away. He might have sat up at night, waiting for his window to open and night to sweep in, wrapping him up in an embrace. Or else Claquesous could have taken his chance and fled, leaving Montparnasse behind in his fog of hopelessness and grief. It was a fear that had gripped him since Claquesous had first drawn him in. Perhaps this, then, was for the best. 

“You bastard,” he hissed at the ground, surprised at the venom in his own voice. It felt hot in his throat, moving up from his chest. “Just like you to vanish too soon.”

Sparse grass was beginning to fill in over the the grave. Montparnasse kicked at it. How dare any seed find life here. He kicked again, coating the toe of his boot in grave dirt, but he drew back again and again until the wicked weeds were gone, and the soil had been churned up, and Claquesous was still beneath it. 

Montparnasse dropped to his knees, trousers be damned. There was no one but the night to watch him, and she held him in a familiar inky embrace. 


	6. Day 6 - Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for blood, wounds, and surgical stitches

The kitchen table had seen a lot. It had scars of its own by now, rings of stains interrupted here and there with chips and dents. The dark wood has soaked in more than Montparnasse liked to think about, and so he rarely ate at it, leaving the surface instead to bottles or cards or bodies. 

He winced. 

Claquesous had a steady hand, far too practiced. The flinch made no difference to him, and he kept his hand on Montparnasse’s torso, holding the skin together as he pulled the thread though again. Montparnasse closed his eyes, and tried to think about other, better times he had lain on that table, under Claquesous’s capable hands. But the angle was wrong, one hip pressing into the hard wood, his right arm thrown over his head to move it out of the way of the wound.

Montparnasse wondered if he would one day die on that table. 

“Done,” Claquesous said. His voice sounded strange, and his eyes looked too big on his naked face. He had stripped off his mask the second they had come in, letting it fall into the trail of blood that went from the front door to the kitchen. The same blood coated his latex gloves, and he peeled them off quickly, disposing of them along with Montparnasse’s ruined shirt, and a towel soaked in crimson. As though though Montparnasse wasn’t familiar with his own blood. 

Montparnasse cautiously lay back, letting out an shuddering breath as his body settled. Claquesous was moving around the kitchen, but Montparnasse’s eyes felt too heavy to follow him. He let them fall closed. The throbbing in his side made him grit his teeth, and he tried to take shallow breaths. Each rise of his chest stretched at the wound, threatening to rip it open again. 

“Here.”

Montparnasse blinked up at Claquesous, who had pulled a chair up next to Montparnasse’s head. He held a mug with a straw in it, guiding it towards Montparnasse’s lips. It was orange juice. He had been expecting water. 

“What the fuck?” he rasped. He didn’t know what he was opposing, but the complaint felt right on his tongue even if it burned below his ribs.

“Drink it.”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes, but drank. The ceiling light over the table was too bright.

“Don’t move. I’m going to make up the bed.” 

Montparnasse wanted to retort, but the words couldn’t find their way out of his mouth. He swallowed them with the rest of his juice. He had just shut his eyes again which Claquesous returned, pulling Montparnasse off of the table into his arms. The movement pulled at the stitches and Montparnasse whined, tired of holding back. Tired of everything. 

“I can walk,” he mumbled as Claquesous carried him towards the bedroom. Claquesous didn’t bother with a reply. He had put fresh sheets on the bed and turned down the duvet. He set Montparnasse gently down, and helped him out of his trousers and shoes with clinical formality. When Montparnasse was settled, he pulled up the armchair from the corner, tossing the small mountain of Montparnasse’s clothes onto the floor. 

“You can sleep in the bed,” Montparnasse said, annoyed.

“Not tonight.” Claquesous leaned over and shut off the lamp. He wouldn’t sleep that night, Montparnasse knew. It was the last thing he though before he gave into sleep. 


	7. Day 7 - Lace

Few people attended Montparnasse’s funeral. This sat funny with him. On the one hand, how dare the world not stop to mark his passing? On the other though - he had always prided himself on being able to slip in and out of places unnoticed. Maybe this was just a testament to his success. 

 

Of course, what fun is attending one’s own funeral if there is nothing to see? 

 

There was no open casket for mourners to visit, no body to weep over. The small porcelain vase at the altar of the little church was filled with ashes of some sort - Montparnasse hadn’t asked Claquesous who or what they were from. He didn’t particularly care anymore. Soon he would be far from this place, starting a new life somewhere else. 

He raised a gloved hand and and handkerchief, sniffing delicately. 

Ladies mourning clothing looked particularly good on him, he had found. The tightly laced corset kept his breath short and high, sounding like grief to anyone who heard it. The heeled boots and dark, feathered hat made him taller, and he felt rather like a phantom walking among the living as he glided down the aisle, his skirts gently brushing the ground. The long, black lace veil covered his face, hiding it from the few mourners who had braved their identities in the daylight. 

The thrill of it all passed quickly when the priest began to speak, telling sugared lies about the fine young man the world had lost too soon. It was bland and impersonal, and Montparnasse wondered what the man would have had to say had they met in a darkened street. 

Anticipation buzzed in him, and the air in the church felt stale. Partway through a particularly dull hymn, he stood, catching a few heads turn his way. He let out a small, stifled wail as he hurried back up the aisle to the wooden church door. Let them think he was an old lover, finding the event unbearable. 

Claquesous was ready with the carriage just outside the door. Montparnasse lifted his skirt a little as he made his way down the steps towards his lover, who helped him up into the front bench. 

“Had you not the patience for the whole show?” Claquesous said, amused. 

“Death, I have found, is terribly dull. I think I much better enjoy my blood warm in my veins.”

“Yes, I believe I also prefer you hot-blooded.” Claquesous balled the lace into his fist, pulling it up to expose Montparnasse’s mouth, reaching for it hungrily with his own. 

Montparnasse’s heart responded, pumping hard against the whalebone. “Drive,” he demanded, drawing back. “Rid me of this city, and then rid me of these clothes. I have no use for either anymore.” 

Claquesous spurred the horses forward, leaving the remnants of their old lives behind as Montparnasse’s veil danced in the wind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed some canon-era crossdressing and faking-ur-own-death for the last day of Montsous week OBVIOUSLY.


End file.
